CHAPTER ONE - PROLOGUE
The year was 1257, and the Northern Kingdoms had finally stopped holding their breath.
No one would think to make the claim that they were unused to conflict. War, famine, political intrigue, marriage woes, or a brawl at the pub. Most people lived through at least one. That another crisis had come and gone was hardly unusual. Nations went to war, atrocities were committed in the name of honour and commerce, and people died. Everyone, from figures of state to smallfolk, they knew how it went. Those affected would dust off their clothes, bury their dead, and move on with their lives. For everyone else? It was prime gossip material.
—
Did you hear? The mad sorcerer who tortured King Medell senseless and threw Temeria into chaos? A man pale as death, they say he tore his own nose off in some demonic ritual. Apparently he was a learned man, being tutored in those foul arts at some well-to-do school, if you can believe it. Thought to call himself a Dark Lord, recruiting schoolmates and likeminded freaks to his cause. Lots of strife, magical folk taking different sides and slaughtering each other in droves. Some were even nobles! Proper high society types, all posh and polish, throwing hexes at each other with wands in the streets. This so-called Dark Lord had a wand as well, and by all accounts he wielded devilish power. No, I don't know his proper name. Seems anyone with a speck of mysticism about them knows to keep mum about it. Name is cursed, or so they say.
Here comes the strangest part of the story. The Dark Lord was defeated at the height of his power, and on the cusp of success. Gone in a single night. How could that be right? What happened to him? Where's he gone? Well, I'll wager a load of folks in high places are tearing their hair out trying to answer those questions. Rumors abound, but no one can agree. Some say that hell opened up to take him back, or it was a ritual gone wrong. It's even been said that a child brought him down, barely out of swaddling clothes. Don't laugh, it's just what I've heard. No one confirming it, no child to be seen, but there have been murmurs. Only reason anyone takes it half-seriously is since they heard it from the magicals. Those who survived and haven't already gone into hiding or begged for mercy, that is.
Schools that churned out these ingrates will have to pay, that's for certain. Kings aren't keen on sorcerers meddling in their affairs. And this? This was meddling the likes of which no one has ever seen. Medell will never be the same, and young Prince Foltest will have to put everything back together as best he can. So those freaks are right to scatter like they did. But the schools will burn all the same. At the very least, other countries ought to keep a sharper eye on their magicals.
Especially whichever school that Dark Lord came from. What was it called? Odd. I swear I've heard the name before, even said it. Must be the drink. Don't you remember? Come on, it's been the talk of the town for days now. Someone's got to remember what it was called, or where it is. It's in Temeria, right? I could have sworn it was, but I'm not sure at all now.
—
Again, prime gossip material. Anyone could get a kick out of mystical events such as these. Even children entertained themselves with games of magic and wizardry. Fathers returning home would regale their sons and daughters with stories of miracles and plagues. But some children were still too young to understand. They laughed in the excitement or cried in the confusion. In the arms of an enormous bearded man, one such child slept soundly; happily ignorant of any sorcerers or magical wars, on his way to live with his mother's family.
And on his forehead was a scar like lightning.